


A/B/O Stiffenverse

by Whisky (whiskyrunner)



Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-30
Updated: 2013-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-30 22:09:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1023953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskyrunner/pseuds/Whisky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An alternate Stiffen the Sinews storyline in which omega John Blake is wrongly imprisoned in the pit - and separated from his heat suppressants for the first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A/B/O Stiffenverse

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING. This story contains: on-screen miscarriage, noncon, mpreg, heat cycles, knotting. (Let me know if I should add anything.)
> 
> Things you should know: This part of the story picks up during John's first pregnancy. He's already suffered through his first and second heats with Bane - and unintentionally bonded to him (something which Bane has no knowledge of). Actual fertile omegas are very rare in the pit, which means keeping John's pregnancy a secret. All these things will probably be written later, but for now all I have is a chapter plucked somewhat out of context, with no solid beginning or end. I hope it's still enjoyable to you fans of ABO and/or Bane/John!
> 
> Familiarity with the Stiffen universe is recommended, as is visiting me on Tumblr, if you like Arthur/Eames, Bane/John, or adorable pictures of my rats: http://whiskyrunner.tumblr.com/ :)

John wakes up in the middle of the night, after the pit has gone quiet. He'd fallen asleep back-to-back with Bane, but as usual, during the night Bane has managed to roll over and drape an arm over his belly without disturbing him. John lies there, tense against Bane, before he realizes what woke him: a ferocious spasm passes through his gut. He clenches his teeth and breathes hard and harsh, gripping a fistful of the blankets. The pain grips his whole abdomen; and then, after a minute, begins to fade, until all that remains is a cramping in his lower back.

He shuts his eyes and tries to go back to sleep, but the cramping is dull and constant, impossible to shut out. He feels nauseous and he can't move. Bane's arm around him feels confining and suffocating. John concentrates on breathing. It's almost working—he's almost able to shut out the pain in his back—but after ten minutes or so, another spasm grips him. He shudders and pants through it, his eyes prickling. He doesn't want to wake Bane up, so he bites down on any noise that bubbles up in his throat and refuses to writhe. It makes the pain seem to last even longer; but eventually this one, too, fades.

Only for another ten minutes. After the third spasm—muted and stiff, tasting bile in his throat now—John's starting to panic. What's happening? He desperately doesn't want to think the word, but it's nosing its way in anyway. Are these—contractions?

The thought of waking up his mate is unpleasant, but John doesn't see that he has a choice at this point. “Bane,” he whispers. He has to repeat it a little louder, wriggling: “Bane!”

Bane wakes up at once, squeezing tighter for a moment and making John groan aloud. “What is it?”

“Something's wrong.”

Bane sits up, and John can finally curl himself into a ball. Bane touches his forehead, sweeps a hand down his flank. “What?”

John swallows the bile that surges in his throat again. It's difficult to get the words out. “I think ... I think the baby might be coming.”

Bane is silent for a moment.

“Impossible,” he says finally. “The doctor said nine months. It's been less than three.”

“I know that,” John snaps. Tears are starting to prick at his eyes, ridiculously. He hates how much he sounds like a child when he says, “But it really hurts.”

“Let me see.” Bane is turning brisk and impersonal, like he used to be. He climbs out of bed and disappears for a minute, then returns with a lamp. “Roll over.”

Stiffly, gasping with pain, John uncurls and obeys. Bane pulls the blanket back—John shivers—and Bane just looks for a minute. Then, setting the lamp down, he bundles John up in the blankets and carries him to the corner. John cries out when he's jostled, his back still aching acutely.

“You're bleeding,” Bane says.

John glances at the bed. Stripped of its blankets, he can see the dark patch that's spread across it. He feels it now, too; an uncomfortable wetness in the seat of his pants. Embarrassment as much as the pain makes him draw his knees up to his chest.

A flicker of light makes them both look up: Nadiya is at the bars, curious about the commotion. Bane steps past John, tugging up his shroud to speak to her, and John is somehow surprised to hear the strained note in his voice. Bane is worried. About him? No, of course not—he's worried for what's inside John. John curls up around the pain, trying more than ever to block it out.

“Nadiya says blood is normal during pregnancy,” Bane says, turning back to John, with relief. John grits his teeth.

“Not that much of it.”

Nadiya says something else. Bane moves aside so that she can see where the bed is still illuminated by the lamp. Nadiya falls silent.

Before she can speak, another spasm, or contraction, hits; and John balls up a corner of the blanket in his mouth and bites down on it, muffling his cries. This one is the worst yet. Bane goes to him, alarmed, but John recoils from him, curling himself up around his pain stubbornly until it passes.

Nadiya speaks again. John doesn't need to speak Arabic to know that she's telling Bane to fetch the doctor.

Bane just nods, says to John “I'll be back,” and leaves.

In the next cell, Talia is calling to her mother. Nadiya crouches down to John's level and says, “Be strong, John,” before getting up to tend to Talia. John can't bring himself to look up at her before the curtain falls back into place. He tells himself to take slow, deep breaths. Not to panic. Impossible for the baby to be coming now. Even if his stomach and lower back are cramping like it's fighting to get out. Like it doesn't want to be inside him anymore—like it knows he doesn't want it, either. John holds his stomach and breathes.

When Bane comes back, there's no one with him.

“The doctor is unconscious,” he says. His anger fills the air around him and makes John shrink against the wall. “What now?”

“I don't know,” John says, because even now, he knows better than to say, _you did this—you fix it_. Bane snarls under his breath and paces, drags a hand through his hair. The part of John that craves his mate's touch wants to beg Bane to come nearer. The rational part prefers Bane where he is, on the other side of the cell, twitching like he's going to punch something or someone.

Then, suddenly, Bane says, “Stay,” and he turns and whisks out of sight again, full of purpose.

John goes back to deep breathing. He doesn't like Bane here with him, looking so angry, but it's worse to be alone in the cell. He closes his eyes, breathes through the next cramp alone, and wipes away his tears afterward.

This time, when Bane returns, someone else is with him. The other person sets a pouch down on the bed and immediately sets about lighting every other lamp in the room while Bane picks up a remaining sheet and begins to pin it up across the front bars of the cell, blocking them completely from sight. With dull surprise, John sees that the other person is Aisha.

“Why's Aisha here?” he asks.

“He's going to look at you,” Bane says tersely.

“Is that allowed?” John asks.

No one answers.

When the room is fully lit, Aisha picks up his pouch and crouches down in front of John, offering a quick and comforting, if nervous, smile. The flickering candlelight is only adding to John's nausea: he stays silent and sullen, curled up with his knees to his chest. Aisha looks uncertainly up at Bane, who says something in Arabic—giving him permission to touch, John guesses, because the next thing Aisha does is lay a tentative hand on John's knee.

“He needs to look at you,” Bane says. When John doesn't move, Bane adds, “Pants off.”

As if this wasn't embarrassing enough. “I don't want to,” John says, his face hot.

Bane simply growls. “John.”

Aisha glances warily back and forth between John and Bane. John says, “Then I don't want you watching.”

Bane seems startled by this. “What?”

“Can't you just stand over there?”

Bane's face clouds with suspicion and irritation. “You are my wife.”

“I don't want you watching,” John repeats.

Eyes narrowed, Bane retreats to the other corner, near the bed. Aisha looks uncertainly at him, and Bane growls something in Arabic.

John still doesn't want to do this. His eyes start to feel stupidly hot and wet again as he lets Aisha help him to clumsily get his pants off. Aisha is quick to lay a blanket over him, and then, to John's surprise, he retreats, taking John's pants and a lamp with him. He examines the inside of the pants first, holding the light close. When he returns, after rubbing his hands together and blowing on them to warm them up, he does look at John, but only briefly. He's obviously more curious about the discharge than anything else. He lays the blanket over John again and says something quietly.

“He says he's going to ask you where it hurts,” Bane supplies from the corner.

With a surprisingly soft, gentle hand, Aisha touches parts of John's body in turn, and John either nods or shakes his head. He nods vigorously when Aisha touches his back. When Aisha touches his stomach, John nods and says, “Every few minutes,” which Bane translates. Aisha just nods back, his expression grave. He's calm, quick and professional about it, and John finds he prefers him to the doctor. Aisha is another omega—not a threat.

When another cramp hits and John curls himself up, instead of leaning away, Aisha puts his face close to John's and breathes in a deep, calm rhythm, exaggerating the movement of his chest as he inhales. John tries to match him, and Aisha nods encouragingly and keeps him breathing. At the other end of the cell, Bane paces restlessly back and forth, his anxiety building like a billowing thunderhead.

This one lasts a long time, but eventually the pain passes and John is left shuddering, wondering how much more of this his body can stand. With a brief touch to John's cheek, Aisha resumes his examination. It's not long before he sits back on his heels and looks at Bane, waiting until he receives a permissive nod to speak. Bane stops pacing and listens, and his expression doesn't change.

“What did he say?” John asks nervously into the silence, when Aisha has finished. Bane is still looking at Aisha, his face still unreadable.

“He says you have lost the baby,” he says.

John doesn't say anything. His whole body has gone numb and cold. For a second, he can't feel the pain in his back.

“He doesn't think you have passed ...” Bane seems to struggle with the translation for a moment “... it ... yet. But he believes you will.”

“Oh.”

Aisha opens his little pouch and digs out a couple of pills, which he tips carefully onto John's blanket. John doesn't even look at them. Aisha says something else, pointing to them.

“For the blood loss,” Bane says.

“I can't,” John mumbles. He doesn't think about the words; he simply hears himself say them. “I mean, I can't take them. He saved those for the women.”

“Take them,” Bane says flatly. “We will replace them.”

Still numb, John lets Aisha bring him a bottle of water. He puts the pills on his tongue and swallows them. He can tell Aisha wants to touch him—maybe just to squeeze his hand, or something—but doesn't dare to. John's not sure if he's glad of that or not. Bane and Aisha talk a little more, and John tunes them out. He's startled when Bane lifts him, surprisingly gentle, blanket and all, and deposits him back on the bed. Aisha is taking down the sheet, preparing to go.

“Wait.” John's tongue feels thick. He struggles to push himself up on one elbow. His whole body feels drained. “Did he say ... why?”

Bane looks to Aisha, repeating the question. This time Aisha looks at John as he answers, and his eyes are sad.

“Only God knows,” Bane says.

 _That's not an answer_ , John wants to say. He wants to say, _Tell me it wasn't my fault. Tell me I didn't do this. Tell me it was something Bane did._ But he's not sure why it matters.

Bane gives him a clean pair of pants to ruin. John pulls them on, then rolls onto his side, facing the wall. When Aisha is gone, and Bane gets back into bed with John, both lying on top of the thick blanket instead of the blood-soaked sheets, he pauses a moment before putting his arm over John. It feels perfunctory, not soothing, like it should.

“Does it still hurt?”

“Yeah,” John whispers.

Bane withdraws his arm. When the next cramp hits, John bites his lip to keep himself from making any noise at all.

 

*  
The cramps have stopped by morning. John is vaguely surprised to wake up, not realizing he'd fallen asleep. There's a lingering ache, but nothing like before. He sits up, wondering fretfully for a moment where Bane is. The cell is empty and the door is shut. When John slithers out of bed, gasping softly, and makes his way to the door, he finds it locked. Locked in. That's nice.

He goes back to bed, because there's nothing else to be done. He's too sick to eat and too painful to go back to sleep. He holds his stomach and rests.

Bane is gone for hours. When he returns, John rolls over to face him. Bane is carrying an armful of clothing and sheets.

“Put this on.” He drops a pair of pants on the bed. John picks them up and finds that Bane's padded them with strips of thick blanket material. “Try not to bleed through it.”

“I'll do my best,” John snipes bitterly.

“Up,” Bane says, taking John by the arm. “Out of bed. Move.”

Stung, John retreats and exchanges his pants while he watches Bane change the sheets. It's difficult to read Bane's mood. If John touched him he would get an idea; but Bane is moving briskly around the cell, as if he's too busy for John.

“Take these.” Bane drops a handful of pills onto the table in the corner, and places a bottle of water next to them. “The doctor said the bleeding will stop soon.”

“Fine.” John takes the pills. Four of them, two the same as the ones Aisha gave him. He wonders briefly how Aisha gets all his medications for the women, and decides he doesn't want to know.

“Now lie down and be still.”

 _Bossy._ John bites the word back. He doesn't know how Bane will react to anything right now. Bane watches him lie down, arms folded over his chest. Settling himself in the blankets, John is almost needy enough right now to ask Bane to lie down with him; but before he does, a thought hits him like a punch to the chest. Does Bane _blame_ him for losing the baby?

Disbelief tears through him. All of this is Bane's fault. How can he blame John? John's only crime here has been not wanting to carry Bane's child. So he didn't ask to be Bane's mate. It doesn't mean he caused this!

Bane leaves the cell again, locking the door as if he thinks John will try to run away from him. As if there's anywhere in the pit John could hide from Bane for long.

One of the pills must have been a painkiller, because before long, the pain starts to subside. John struggles up out of bed. Bane hadn't given him a real order. Gathering up half the blankets on the bed (he decides he's entitled to half), he carries them to the back corner where the bars are and starts constructing a rough nest. Then he makes himself comfortable. He refuses to stay in a bed he has to share with a mate who blames him for something that isn't his fault.

It must be the hormones that make his eyes feel all hot and prickly again. He wipes at them roughly. Every part of him aches to be soothed by his alpha mate; but Bane isn't here, and John doesn't want him. He hates all these needs that Bane's bond has awoken in him. He'd always been self-sufficient until he got here.

He stays in his nest, miserable, for a long time. Every now and then he goes to the wooden stool in the corner over the latrine pit when his stomach gives a little fitful cramp, but eventually that subsides and, returning to his blanket pile, he manages to fall into a doze.

Bane is displeased when he finally returns.

“The doctor said to lie still in bed,” he snaps, scooping John up in his arms again. John, waking abruptly, flails and nearly gets dropped.

“Stop,” he says, and then, with more authority: “Put me down!”

It's only a few steps to the bed, though, so Bane is already dumping him onto the mattress. John tries to clamber off and Bane snags him by the shirt collar and gives him a little yank of reproof, as if he's a puppy.

“Stay,” Bane growls.

It's a command that goes straight to John's bones, shivering down the column of his spine. With his weakened mental and emotional resources, the pressure to obey is overwhelming. He lies down and goes still. Bane pets him; roughly, briskly, just once down his back. Then his hand lifts away.

“I know you are upset,” he starts, the words stilted and awkward as if someone had coached him to say them.

“I'm not upset,” John seethes, half muffled in the pillow. “You think I'm upset about losing your spawn? You think I wanted to have your baby? _Your_ baby?”

“John ...”

“I'm not upset,” John insists, breathing hard. His eyes sting and leak. “I'm glad it's gone. I really couldn't be happier!”

“Enough,” Bane snaps, and John falls silent.

Several moments pass. The cot creaks when Bane sits down on the edge of it.

“I won't punish you for that. But when you are well again, you will show me respect, do you understand?”

“Fine.” John rolls onto his side, facing the wall.

“The doctor said to stay in bed and lie still until you are better—a task I doubt you will find very difficult.”

John pulls his knees up to his chest and ignores him.

“He also said you may go into heat again soon.”

“Great.”

“I will take care of you, John,” Bane says firmly. “I am not your enemy.”

“Fine. I know,” John amends, biting his tongue to keep from saying anything else he's feeling.

“You will tell me if there is any more pain.”

“Sure.”

Bane waits a moment, perhaps to see if John feels like continuing the conversation. When John says nothing, Bane leaves the cot. John hears him go over to his table and sit down. John stays where he is, glaring at the wall, acutely conscious of the empty space stretching between him and his mate.

 

*  
The pain fades. The bleeding stops after a few days. Bane washes the blankets and clothes, and every trace of the pregnancy fades from the cell. This is fine by John.

He and Bane don't talk very much. John mostly stays in bed, since he's been given permission, sometimes setting up a lamp and reading one of Bane's English books. He doesn't even leave the bed for Talia, who sits at the bars at night and demands stories from him but has to settle for Bane, while John rolls over and stares at the wall and pretends not to listen. During the day, Bane drifts in and out of the cell, doing little chores, paying scant attention to John. At night Bane gets in bed with him and they lie there in the dark like two strangers. Their bond feels bruised, somehow; a mental ache that John doesn't want to acknowledge. As always, he has no idea how conscious of this Bane is.

At the end of the week, Bane gets into bed with John and says, abruptly, “I'm going to take you tonight.”

“What?” John blurts out. He hasn't had to—do that for months. Since they first learned he was pregnant. It's cold, and Bane hovers over him impatiently, and he knows he couldn't summon up the arousal to make himself wet right now if he wanted to. “Don't.”

Bane's eyes narrow. He doesn't care, John thinks, heart thudding; but then Bane demands, “Are you still sore?”

“Yeah,” John lies. Bane grunts.

“Then use your mouth.”

It's better than the alternative, although for a moment John just sits there, confused and ... deep down, maybe hurt, too. He didn't have to do this while he was pregnant. But now he's not, and he's pretty sure Bane blames him for it, and it just feels ... unfair.

He almost laughs at himself, a second later. This, of all things in the pit, is unfair? Everything about his life is unfair.

He takes a deep breath, slithers down the bed, and reaches into Bane's pants. He's half hard already. John draws him out, under the blankets—he hates the thought of Bane watching him. Another deep breath, and he touches his tongue to the head of Bane's cock; and then he's taking it into his mouth, just the head. He sucks, swirls his tongue, and can feel Bane's cock filling with blood. Deep in his gut there's a throb of satisfaction. He's pleasing his alpha. He squashes the sensation quickly.

Bane is quiet, offering no direction. John wraps his hand around the shaft, pumps Bane's cock in and out of his mouth. He tries to coordinate himself, drag his tongue and suck hard on every upstroke, but it's hard to line up all these actions when so much of his focus is on not gagging when Bane pushes his hips up impatiently. It's without warning that Bane comes, hot and bitter, spilling into John's mouth. John has to swallow several times to get it all down. He slides away, eyes watering, and wipes his mouth before he does up Bane's pants for him.

“Good enough,” Bane says when John crawls out from under the blankets, and John knows that means Bane is less than thrilled with his performance. That tiny glow of satisfaction turns to a spike of anxiety, followed by anger at all the other omegas who've put their mouths on John's mate and managed to please him. He clenches a fistful of blankets, irrationally despising Aisha and the other women whose standard he can't meet, and glares at the wall.

Bane rolls over, not saying anything more about it.

 

*  
In the morning John knows his heat is coming soon. It prickles at the base of his spine. He longs to be soothed, but Bane is avoiding John like he's infectious. John is filled with despair when he finds himself locked in the cell again, alone, before his rational brain tells him that it's better like this. The more attention Bane gives him, the faster the heat will come. Bane must be able to sense that, for once attuned to his mate; though why he would put off John's heat, John doesn't know.

He sits at the door of the cell and watches the goings-on of the pit. The alphas eye him, too, but none dares get too close. There's another omega at the tail end of his heat somewhere, but John can't tell who or where, or what's being done about it. It's probably one of the women. The doctor wanders past, not sparing John a glance. John's surprised to hear Nadiya call out to him from the next cell. Usually she's asleep by now.

The doctor stops and comes closer. Nadiya converses with him through the bars, pushing the curtains to one side. After a minute the doctor leaves, and John doesn't know what to make of this; but the doctor comes back ten minutes later, carrying a little bag. He gives it to Nadiya through the bars. In return, she hands him a larger bag of something. They exchange a few more words, and the doctor leaves.

John looks around. No one else has witnessed this transaction. They're all trying not to look in the direction of John's cell, lest Bane catch them hungering for his omega.

“John.” Nadiya's whisper reaches him from the front corner of the cell, next to Bane's table. John gets up.

“Hi,” he says, bemused. Nadiya almost never talks to him. Or if she does, she speaks through Bane. “What's—”

She pushes the little bag from the doctor through the cell bars, placing it on the table.

“For you,” she says. Curious, John unties the drawstring and looks inside. The bag is full of pills. He looks up, and finds Nadiya staring at him with burning purpose. “Take one now. Take one every day until your heat is finished.”

Disconcert prickles at him. She can't be giving him her heat suppressants. A female beta in heat—the alphas would tear the door right off her cell. “Nadiya ...”

“To stop pregnancy,” she says, studying him, watching to see that he understands. He falls silent, and she nods. “I know things that Bane does not. I know how hard it is. I know pregnancy can kill you, in this place. You need to take them, John, or it will happen again, maybe worse next time. The doctor says this often works. Please.”

Dizzy, John pulls the bag closer to him. Nadiya looks relieved.

“I don't have anything to give you,” he says, his voice slightly choked.

“No matter,” she says. She lets the curtain fall back into place, leaving John alone once more.

He takes one of the pills then. _Often_ works—it's not reliable as a prophylactic, then; probably it's not a prophylactic at all, just some other drug with a side effect he can take advantage of. He doesn't care, right then. He dodged a bullet, losing the baby. He does not want to get pregnant again. Not here; not ever.

The question is, where can he hide the pills so that Bane won't find them? Bane knows every inch of this cell. Nearly all his supplies are stashed under the bed, and a little bag might be overlooked amongst everything else, but John doesn't want to take that chance. He looks all over, and finally comes across a nook in the stone wall next to their bed, which he can reach if he stands up. He tucks the bag in there. After a moment's thought, he removes three pills and hides them in the pillowcase, so that he can surreptitiously take them during the heat. He hopes he remembers to.

Bane mounts him that night, perhaps unable to resist, and John is crying by the end; both with relief—his heat brimming closer and closer to the surface—and pain. Even without knotting him, Bane's girth is formidable, and it's been weeks—months, since the last time. John's body eases the way, after that first agonizing push in, the friction like sandpaper; but he can't do anything about the near-unbearable stretch, except to ride it out. When it's over Bane gathers John up in his arms awkwardly, drags his fingers through John's hair, and inexpertly comforts his omega. Wherever their bare skin touches, John can feel how assured Bane is, of his own strength, of his ability to carry John through his heat, all his protective alpha instincts radiating from him. With his mate next to him, it's hard for John to feel afraid; but he manages, anyway.

 

*  
Bane only leaves for a short time the next morning, during which John takes his pill quickly. While Bane is gone, alphas pace outside the cell, cat-calling John in their own ugly-sounding languages. A few daring betas join in. They all want him. The knowledge is heady and repulsive all at once. John balls himself up on the bed, back against the wall, knees hugged up to his chest, fever-flush and achingly empty. He wants his mate.

Bane returns with a snarl, scattering the vultures. Anyone who doesn't retreat in a hurry is dealt with ruthlessly. John hears a brutal snap of bone, the agonized scream that follows, and knows Bane is sending a message: do not come near here again. Even with a locked door between them, he doesn't want anyone that close to John. John shivers, and sits up, anxious to be touched.

Bane lets himself in, breathing hard, and locks the door behind him. He starts pinning up a sheet over the door, blocking them from view entirely, and plunging the cell into darkness. John can't see, but Bane must be able to, because within a minute he's located matches and lamps and is lighting them methodically.

John feels ready to burst out of his own skin. He practically pounces as soon as Bane joins him on the bed.

“Come on,” he says, kneading Bane's thighs, not sure if he wants to get rid of his pants or Bane's first. “Let's get this over with.”

Bane pushes him gently away. Expecting him to start shedding his clothes, John sits back.

“Not just yet,” Bane says. He's pulling out a can of something, starting to cut it open with a sharp knife. “You need to build your strength.”

“I have strength. Let's go.”

Bane's eyes are unreadable in the flickering lamplight. He gives the can to John, and in spite of himself, John's stomach growls as soon as he smells the syrupy sweetness of preserved pear slices. He fishes them carefully out of the can, so as not to cut himself, but then gives up and tips it to his lips, gulping the syrup gratefully. It's rare to find anything sweet in the pit. He savours it.

He's distracted only as long as the pears last; when they're gone, he tosses the can away and gets on his knees, putting his hands on Bane's shoulders. Again, though, he's deterred.

“Rest,” Bane says, taking John by the wrists and pushing him down on the bed. John pops back up as soon as Bane lets him go, unable to believe what's going on.

“I can't. I'm in heat.”

“I know.”

“So fuck me.” Bane doesn't move, and a wave of anger fills John. “This is what you wanted!”

“Your heat will pass,” Bane says stubbornly, looking away. “All things do.”

“That's not how this works!” John's too upset to come up with a rational argument, to explain to Bane that the longer he goes unmated, the longer his heat will last, and the more attention he'll draw from the other prisoners. All that's running through his mind on a frantic loop is the terrifying thought that Bane doesn't want him. He lost the baby. He's let his mate down. He's failed his purpose as an omega. For a moment, he's crushed.

Perhaps Bane senses this. He sighs, pushes John down gently and runs a hand down his back. John is too hot and jittery to appreciate the attempt at gentling, though. He twists around and reaches for Bane, determined to _make_ him want John. His heart thrills when he finds that Bane is already hard.

“John ...” Bane's warning breaks off into a low rumble when John scrambles into his lap and starts mouthing at the line of Bane's erection through his pants. It strains against the fabric, and John works frantically at the fastening of Bane's pants so he can free it, but he's too impatient to stop in the meantime. Bane is breathing harshly above him, his hand hovering over John's head as if not sure whether to pull him off or push him down.

“Please,” John finds himself mumbling, panting as he mouths at Bane. “Please.”

“Enough, John,” Bane says raggedly, finally managing to push John away. John doesn't miss a beat: he grabs Bane's hand and starts pressing kisses to his palm, dragging his tongue up Bane's fingers and sucking feverishly at them, while with his other hand he kneads at Bane's cock. Bane falters with a soft moan.

It's working. He does want John. John can't get enough of the taste of his skin, the salt of his sweat; can't stop nuzzling at the hand he has pressed to his face. He needs to taste Bane's cock, but Bane's other hand is around his wrist, warily squeezing as John strokes his erection through the fabric, ready to stop him. He starts to pull his hand away from John's face. John goes with him, climbing into his lap altogether and rocking mindlessly against his thigh, refusing to give up that easy. He buries his face in Bane's neck, nosing underneath the shroud to bite and lick at his neck, and can feel the vibration of Bane's next groan through his throat. Pleased, John pulls off just long enough to drag Bane's shroud down—not quite registering, as he does, the odd, cloying scent that clings to it—and presses his mouth to Bane's ravaged lips.

He can feel the cold shock that lances through their bond in the second before Bane tears himself away and slaps him.

John has to blink several times, his head ringing. He licks his lips. Bane is staring at him, stunned.

“Come on,” John says impatiently, recovering. He lurches forward again, but Bane catches him by the shoulders, then brings a hand up to John's face.

“John. I didn't mean—”

“Come on,” John repeats, not sure where all Bane's feelings of doubt are coming from, irritated by them. He can tell his scent is starting to affect Bane, now that his face is uncovered, and he presses forward again.

“You shouldn't have done that,” Bane growls, but his brow is furrowed and he strokes a hand through John's hair. He's clearly not angry enough to deter John. So John goes back to what he was doing before; and this time he succeeds in freeing Bane's cock from his pants. He sees Bane's eyes flutter shut just before he sinks down to suck the head into his mouth, lapping eagerly.

With a shudder, Bane suddenly grabs him and rolls him over, pressing John onto his belly. John moans, gladly spreading his thighs when Bane yanks his pants down, and tilting his hips up so that Bane can press in with a thumb to where John is hot and wet and ready for him, _throbbing_ with readiness. Bane crooks his thumb, stroking inside with the pad while stretching John's rim with his thick knuckle.

“Please,” John pants.

Bane hushes him. He drapes himself over John's back, a hot, heavy weight. John starts to reach back when Bane withdraws his thumb, but then he's pushing his way in, inch by inch until he's sheathed inside John. John's breath comes in quick, shallow gasps; he feels lightheaded. Bane's cock inside him is a hard, searing shape that forces him to mold himself to it, impossible to shut out or ignore. It's painful, too big, and yet once again he has the vague idea that they are meant to fit together like this—perfectly matching pieces of a puzzle.

He squirms against Bane, trying to work his hips back and get Bane even deeper inside him. Bane mistakes his squirming for discomfort, and starts to withdraw until John actually whines. Growling, Bane pushes back in. Already John is looser, letting him in. He pumps in and out, quick shallow thrusts that nonetheless force the breath out of John's lungs. He squeezes down against the head of Bane's cock, refusing to let him pull out all the way.

When John is relaxed and wet enough that Bane can slide in without resistance, he puts his head down suddenly and sets up a hard, demanding pace. He's almost frantic in his need for release, matching John's urgency at last. He's not trying particularly hard to locate John's prostate—just hammering him into the bed—so whenever Bane gives him a quarter inch to breathe, John shifts around, trying to get just the right angle so that Bane's hitting his sweet spot. He can feel Bane inside him, not just where Bane's cock stretches his sensitive rim but every square inch inside, too, sending electric sparks to John's brain. When he finds that perfect angle, and the head of Bane's huge cock grinds just against the right spot, John sees stars.

It's over too soon; Bane had been more worked up than John realized. He grabs John's hips, hitches them up so that John doesn't have to hold himself in place; and with John squeezing and squirming around him, Bane doesn't last. He pulls John onto him, pushing in as deep as he can fucking get, so deep the pressure goes all the way up to John's stomach, forcing John's thighs even further apart; and then his knot starts to swell. John struggles and gasps, forgetting, again, that this is what's supposed to happen, this is what's right; but it's too late to separate. Bane's knot is already locking them together; and with a snarl, Bane is spilling his release inside his mate. John's muscles clench reactively, greedily trying to milk as much as he can out of Bane's cock.

He's still shivering when Bane gingerly collapses onto his back. And he's realizing how noisy he must have been, judging by the sounds of the men who've gathered outside the cell. He's starting to come down, just the slightest bit, just enough for his heart to stop battering against his ribs. Bane nuzzles at the back of his neck, distracting John from his shame.

“So good, John,” Bane murmurs, lips pressed to John's nape. “Good. You take it so well, little one.”

John positively purrs at this praise, forgetting about the pain and their surroundings. His eyes are streaming, he realizes belatedly when Bane brushes his cheek. He's already adapting to the brutal stretch of Bane's knot, though; he barely feels it. Adrenaline is fading to be replaced with a dreamy, endorphin-induced high. He feels so connected to his mate, so reassured by the strength he feels pouring out of Bane and into him.

Bane presses his nose into John's hair and breathes deep, coming down from his own high.

“I shouldn't have hit you,” he says.

John struggles to remember this. Everything outside of them, lying together here and now, seems so unimportant. “It doesn't matter,” he mumbles, voice scratchy.

Bane pets his hair, then presses him gently down into the bed to rest.

 

*  
In the morning John forgets all about taking a pill. He'd been mated intermittently throughout the night; he's fully in the throes of his heat now.

Everything Bane does is fascinating. He rolls out of bed and stretches, and the way the candlelight gleams off his biceps goes straight to John's dick. The primitive part of his omega brain loves seeing the tangible evidence of his alpha's physical superiority.

He watches Bane pour water into a bowl, soak a washcloth and wring it out before he starts to bathe himself. Bathing is important to Bane—enough that he would leave his mate in the middle of a heat, obviously. John knows he spent the formative years of his life with the previous doctor: Bane has seen firsthand what poor hygiene can do in the pit. Catlike, he's positively obsessed with grooming and bathing. He washes himself at least once a day, ritually. And he insists that John do the same; but more often, John avoids bathing for as long as it takes Bane to notice. Why waste the water and energy? Bane is the only one close enough to notice how clean he is, down here, and John sees no need to make himself look and smell better for a man he largely considers his captor, bond or no bond.

Today, though, when Bane turns to him with the bowl and a chunk of soap and says, “I'd like to bathe you,” John willingly rolls over on his back. Anything to be touched by Bane.

Bane is gentle. He wipes the sweat from John's brow with a clean cloth, then travels down his body. The soap barely produces a lather and it feels gritty against John's hypersensitive skin, but the wet cloth that follows is a balm. The water is cool, taking away the edge of the fever, and calming John marginally. Bane is especially thorough when he comes to the area between John's legs: after a night of mating and knotting, John can imagine what a mess he is.

He's too sensitive to be soothed, though. With Bane's hand right there, the ache to be filled returns. John reaches for him, pulls at him entreatingly, nearly making Bane tip the bowl of water onto the bed. Patiently prying him off, Bane sets the bowl and cloth on the floor at the side of the bed. Then he climbs on top of John, rolling him over onto his belly.

“Insatiable,” he murmurs, squeezing John's ankle lightly.

John shivers. Then he gets his knees under him, pushes his hips up in the air while keeping his upper body flat to the bed, an offering to Bane. Instinct tells him that this is the right thing to do. With a growl, Bane is suddenly on him, prying his legs further apart and guiding the head of his cock to John's aching hole. He slips in with relative ease, and John sees at once the benefit of this position: he can feel Bane deeper inside him than he's ever been; as if he's shoved right up against the base of John's stomach. John presses his face into the bed and goes limp, feeling as though he might finally be satisfied.

Bane takes care of him. He's rough, as always, demanding and too much, too fast. John needs that. The depth of his thrusts is unreal, and all John wants to do is spread his legs a little further apart, try to get Bane just that quarter-inch deeper. An idea makes its way into his mind's eye, playing itself like a film reel, of Bane finishing inside him like this, his come trickling into John's belly, which is right there; and planting a little fertile seed. John doesn't want a baby, but for a moment, the thought of carrying his alpha's progeny inside him is so appealing, so good, that he clamps his eyes shut and climaxes without even having touched himself. Bane growls and follows suit just a moment later, filling John with his knot.

John lies still, boneless, with Bane on top of him. He can hear Bane panting harshly for breath. After a minute, Bane brings a hand up to John's face and tilts his head to the side, checking that he's okay. John turns his face into Bane's hand, then sucks two of Bane's fingers into his mouth. Bane chuckles raspily and pulls his fingers free. Carefully, he maneuvers John until they're both lying on their sides, still tied together. He wraps John up in his arms, splaying one hand over John's stuttering heart.

It takes a while for Bane's knot to soften enough for them to separate. Before Bane pulls out, he says, “Do you like being tied?”

John's rational brain comes back online with a brief flare of resentment. He swallows down the words _if I didn't, I wouldn't be spreading my legs every time you get near me._ Instead, he says, “Yes.”

Bane hums thoughtfully, stroking his hand slowly down John's chest several times. Then he pulls out, making John wince and groan.

“Do you feel better now?” Bane asks.

“A little.”

Bane grunts and leaves the bed. It occurs to John how exhausted he is when he realizes his eyes are too bleary to track Bane's movements around the cell. He shuts his eyes instead and can hear Bane changing his clothes, drinking water.

John's halfway to sleep when Bane's voice rouses him, close to the bed again.

“John, what is this?”

“What's what?” John mumbles before realizing his eyes are still closed. He forces them open, focuses in the dim candlelight on the tiny object Bane is holding up before him between thumb and forefinger. “Oh,” he says, recognizing it. “Pill.”

It must have fallen out of the pillowcase. Bane is wearing his shroud again. It flutters in and out several times before he asks:

“Who gave this to you?”

“Doctor.”

“What is this for?” Bane doesn't wait for an answer before he demands, “Are there more? Have you taken some already?”

Too many questions to sort out in John's brain. He focuses on the first one.

“It's birth control. Stop me getting pregnant.” The other two questions register, and he says, “Yeah. One a day during the heat.”

“Have you taken one today?” Bane's voice is very low.

John shakes his head mutely. It had seemed like the right thing to be honest with Bane, but now he's thinking that perhaps that doesn't matter if taking the pills was the wrong thing to do. He's pretty sure he doesn't want a baby. He thinks so, anyway. But mentally he goes back to his moment of release, the thought of carrying Bane's child inside him again, and he wonders if maybe it's not up to him. Wouldn't it be so much easier to give in to what Bane and his own biology so clearly want?

He's so tired. Easier, he thinks, yes. Easier, and so satisfying ...

Bane's hands are clenching into fists; he breathes hard. John half wonders in a distant way if Bane will hit him. Then Bane gets up from the bed and disappears. He comes back with an open bottle of water, and pulls John awkwardly half into his lap, so that he's propped upright.

“Open.” His fingers are pressed to John's mouth. John opens obediently. The pill lands on his tongue. Bane raises the water to John's lips, lets him sip at it and swallow, and then drink some more, in little gulps, until he's sated.

“I don't have to take it,” John mumbles when Bane lays him down.

“I don't need you to carry my child,” Bane says. Stung, John raises his head.

“Because I lost the other one?”

“Because you are weak,” Bane says flatly.

It's a blade to the heart. _Weak._ Too weak to carry Bane's child, even if he wanted to. What is the point of him, if his alpha thinks he's too weak to be bred?

He puts his head back down. A minute later, Bane's rough hand is at his face.

“Why are you weeping, John?” he demands, impatient. “You never wanted my child.”

“I'm just tired,” John croaks.

Bane sighs and pulls his hand away. “Then sleep.”

“With me.” John clears his throat and tries again, louder: “Sleep here with me.”

“It's my bed,” Bane says, disgruntled by this order; but a moment later it seems to sink in. He goes quiet, and then lies down at John's side. John doesn't know how to ask Bane to touch him, but it turns out he doesn't have to: Bane starts stroking a hand through his hair, and he's still doing this when John drifts off to sleep a minute later.

 

*  
There's a little bleeding when the heat is over, but nothing like before. John knows his heat is ending when having Bane surround him becomes smothering, instead of soothing, and his scent becomes too musky for John's sensitive nose. He pushes Bane away impatiently and curls up in a corner of the cot by himself, where he sleeps for almost a full day.

After three heats now, Bane seems to adjust well enough to the whiplash from John's post-heat moodswing. He transitions easily from overbearing and possessive to distantly protective. He gives John some time to recover, most of which John spends in bed. After a few days, though, he drags John out of bed and into the main prison.

“I will not let you waste the rest of your life sulking in bed,” he says.

It feels good to leave the cell and stretch his legs a bit, but John refuses to say so. He sticks close to Bane's side—he doesn't know how much of his heat-scent still clings to him, but Bane doesn't seem worried. They carry the bedsheets down to the central pool, and wash them together.

“What happens when a ... woman goes into heat?” John asks, wondering for the first time.

“They are shared among the men,” Bane says. He shrugs, dispassionate. “They hardly complain.”

“I'd hate that,” John says.

“You misjudge what you're like in heat, then,” Bane says.

“No. I know I'd hate that, and I bet the women do too.” Although, John reflects, most of the women probably haven't bonded to an alpha of their own. John knows in his bones that taking another alpha would be wrong, somehow. A violation. Little as he likes it, he has a mate now. To let anyone else knot him just wouldn't feel right. “Don't the women get any say?”

“No,” says Bane. “When do omegas get to choose their mates?”

“Where I come from, they get to choose,” John says impulsively. Bane raises an eyebrow, and John continues, emboldened: “Omegas can marry who they want. No one can force them to be with someone they don't like. They can even marry other omegas if they want.”

“Absurd,” Bane says dismissively, going back to the sheets. “How would they breed?”

“Breeding's not everything. That's an old idea. Omegas have been fighting for years to marry each other. Alphas can marry each other too, though that almost never lasts—usually it's celebrities, famous people from movies and stuff.”

He can tell Bane isn't fully following this. “Omegas cannot bond to one another. Nor can alphas.”

“Most betas get along fine without bonding,” John says. “So do lots of other couples. A bond just means you're compatible somehow, it doesn't mean you have to like each other.”

He thinks he might inject a little spite into that last part without meaning to, but Bane doesn't seem to notice. Just grunts. Obviously he doesn't like logic being used against him.

“Omegas can vote, too,” John goes on, picking up speed. “In the old days they weren't even allowed to drive, in case their heat hit them all of a sudden—because it happens just like that, you know, like you flick a damn switch and suddenly they can't even function. People have a lot of stupid notions about omegas and how we're not as smart or capable as alphas and betas, but that's all being proven wrong now. Omegas aren't as strong as alphas usually, but that doesn't make them less capable. These days you can find omega lawyers, college professors, scientists, they're in the army ...”

“Your own Bible states that an omega's purpose is to submit to an alpha,” Bane says. “ _'Now as the church submits to Christ, so also omegas should submit in everything to their masters.'_ Do you disagree?”

“Of course I do,” John says hotly. “The Bible's been outdated for hundreds of years. Everyone knows that. Omegas are people. They have rights. They can do anything an alpha can do. And in the real world, no one treats them like this.”

Bane stops washing the sheets, suddenly, and looks at John directly. “Does thinking about this make you feel any better about your situation?”

Anger makes the blood rush to John's face, heating his cheeks. “No,” he spits out.

“Then don't,” Bane says simply. “And don't speak of it.”

“Why should I—”

“I believe that things are as you say they are, where you come from,” Bane says, “and maybe omegas can do all these things you say; but where most of these men are from, omegas are mere chattel. Talk like this is dangerous. They will fear your thinking will infect their wives and bedslaves.”

“So what?” John says bitterly. “There's more of them than us—wives, I mean. What do they think would happen?”

“Omegas here have largely been raised to believe that there is no greater joy than to bring pleasure to an alpha,” Bane says. “They'd fear you might open their eyes.”

John stares at him. He's heard alphas talk about that before, about how an omega is never happier than when it's on its knees, about how that's all an omega needs, a good strong alpha to breed it. And that was back in Gotham. He'd have assumed every alpha down here holds the same belief; but Bane sounds like he knows it's a lie.

“Do you care?” John blurts out. “That I don't think like that?”

“It doesn't matter to me how you think,” Bane says, “so long as you obey.”

“I'm never gonna be brainwashed into thinking like them,” John says impulsively. “No matter how many heats I have down here.”

Bane just snorts. It's hard to tell, because he's focused on the laundry, but John could almost swear he's amused.

“If all omegas in America are like you,” he says under his breath, dryly, “I don't doubt they do whatever they want.”

John flushes again, but this time for a different reason. He thinks he might have just been complimented.


End file.
